


All the World's a Stage (but the light design is subpar)

by BonesOfBirdWings



Series: Lighting 'verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actor Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Theatre, College Student Stiles, Fluff, Gen, Kinda, M/M, Meet-Cute, Stage Lighting, Stiles is a stage lighter!, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, are panic attacks cute?, no they aren't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesOfBirdWings/pseuds/BonesOfBirdWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Hale is a successful Off-Broadway actor, and Stiles is a stage lighter who literally falls into his life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Peter smiled at him. "Thank you, Stiles. But should I take this to mean that you don't want a meatball sandwich from Banh Mi Saigon?"</i></p>
<p>  <i>Stiles' mouth dropped open. "You - I - Yes, I want! Oh my god, you do the best apologies! Can you piss me off more, please? I accept all future apologies enthusiastically!"</i></p>
<p>  <i>Peter chuckled. "I'm sure that won't be a problem, dear boy. I've been informed that I'm an asshole by a very reliable source."</i></p>
<p>  <i>Stiles beamed. "But you have good taste in food, so things balance out?" he ventured.</i></p>
<p>  <i>Peter threw back his head and laughed. Stiles' grin brightened in answer.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	All the World's a Stage (but the light design is subpar)

Peter first saw his boy at the top of a high ladder, backlit by the harsh brightness of the stage lights. It was a lot less romantic than it sounded, especially since Stiles’ natural clumsiness was in no way mitigated by the fact that he was precariously balanced on the second-to-the-top step of the ladder and holding twenty pounds of metal above his head. Peter watched amusedly as the skinny boy struggled with a particularly heavy stage light, obviously attempting to move it to another location. It was entertaining, at least more so than the director, who was currently blathering at Peter’s co-star, giving her another piece of atrocious advice. The battle between the lighting instrument and the twink was much more interesting – although it finally seemed that the boy was going to overcome the stage light. However, as Stiles grasped the stage light above him and, unloosening it, lifted it over and off the horizontal bar, the foot of the ladder shifted.

Stiles gasped as the swaying of the ladder and the extra weight of the stage light managed to throw him off balance. His hands slipped from the stage light (which, thankfully, was still secured by the strong wire “safety” that was looped around both the horizontal electric and the light) and he toppled sideways off the ladder, hands futilely grasping at empty air. Before he even realized that he had moved, Peter found himself next to the wobbling ladder with an armful of boy.

Normally, this wouldn’t be an entirely unwelcome thing for Peter, but the boy in question was clearly panicking. He was covered by a sheen of sweat and was hyperventilating, his breath shuddering in a quick in-and-out that was synchronized to the rabbit-fast heartbeat that thundered in Peter's ears. His limbs were trembling, and although he was staring up at the ceiling, Peter knew by the unfocused look in his eyes that he wasn’t actually seeing the catwalks above them.

The surrounding cast and crew were frozen in shock, startled by the suddenness of the scene. As Peter started walking offstage, the boy still clutched in his arms, they all suddenly burst into motion. Two more technicians converged on the ladder, one of them quickly scaling it to rescue the stage light while the other braced the bottom of it. The cast, on the other hand, surrounded Peter and Stiles, babbling questions at them while some of the ladies reached out consoling hands towards the boy. As the noise in the theatre ratcheted up a few levels, Peter could feel the boy’s trembling increase along with the frequency of his panicked breaths. The pungent scent of fear began to waft off him.

“Shut up!” he viciously snapped at the surrounding people, the boy's wood-smoke scent of terror triggering unpleasant memories. “Jeff,” he growled at the director, “I’m taking this boy to the green room to get some peace and quiet. Don’t let anyone follow us.”

“Are you sure, Peter?” Jeff asked, _still_ not moving out of Peter’s way. “He looks like he might need medical attention…” He was wringing his hands together nervously. Peter doubted that this had much to do with the state of the boy and more to do with lawsuit that might result from a college-aged intern being seriously injured on the set of his show.

“He needs _peace_ and _quiet_ ,” Peter repeated harshly. “And you are standing in the way of both. Move, all of you.”

With Peter throwing a few more glares at some particularly reluctant actors, the crowd finally parted, allowing Peter to stride purposely backstage. Skirting around the shop, from which the sound of the loud grinding of electric saws and the thumping of hammers emanated, he wound his way through the hallways to the green room. Not bothering to turn the lights on, Peter gently laid Stiles down on one of the couches, making sure not to severely jostle the boy.

“Hey,” Peter said softly. “Hey, listen to me – you’re safe here.” In the dim light that crept under the door from the hallway, Peter could see the boy’s eyes turn to focus on him. Encouraged, Peter smiled softly at the boy. “Hey, there you are,” he said, smoothly kneeling in front of the boy. “I’m Peter. Do you want to tell me your name?” As he spoke, he slowly reached up to touch the boy’s hands, which were rhythmically clenching into fists in the denim covering his knees. As his fingers brushed the boy’s, his fists loosened from their death grip on his jeans. Emboldened, Peter slid his hands under the boy’s and encircled them in a loose hold. The boy’s hands were warm and calloused and smelled strongly of the acrid metal and grease odor that always seemed to hang around lighting technicians.

Peter began running his thumb across the back of the boy's hands soothingly. "Good, you're doing so well," he said. "Now, can you breathe with me? Breathe in - two, three, four, five, six, seven. Let it out - two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Good, good," he praised as the boy forcibly slowed his breaths to his count. "Let's do it again. "

Peter repeated the process several more times, until the boy's breathing had returned to normal and he became completely relaxed, slumping forward on the couch until his forehead rested on Peter's shoulder. His heart slowed to a reasonable pace, and Peter could feel the pulse of blood through his arteries as one of his thumbs settled on the boy's wrist.

"Sorry," the boy finally whispered into Peter's collarbone. "That was embarrassing." He began to pull away, but Peter reflexively tightened his grip on the boy's hands, and the boy froze in surprise.

"Hey, no, no," Peter soothed. "It's fine. Just relax. What's your name?"

"Stiles," the boy murmured,  slowly returning his head to Peter's shoulder. "You're good with panic attacks, Peter," Stiles said, his warm breath puffing across Peter's neck.

"My nephew suffered from them for a while," Peter explained, still not ceasing the calming movement of his thumb across Stiles' knuckles. "He still gets them sometimes on particularly hot days. We - that is, his sister and I - finally just stuffed instructions on how to work him through a panic attack into all of his jeans’ back pockets after one too many panic attacks had been mishandled by strangers."

Stiles huffed a laugh across Peter's collarbone. "Yeah, that's smart," he said. "I really don't have them that much anymore though, but I don't like heights, so..."

"Is that a euphemism for being afraid of heights?" Peter demanded. He pulled far enough away to see the sheepish expression on Stiles' face. "Why the hell are you doing stage lighting, then? Didn't anyone inform you that it involves ladders and catwalks and _heights_?"

Stiles abruptly pulled away from Peter, jerking his hands out of his hold. "Yeah, they did. But I can deal with it, okay?"

Peter snorted. "Yeah, that sure looked like 'dealing with it' to me."

"Screw you, you asshole," Stiles snapped, a underlying tone of hurt in his voice. "This is only the second- You know what? I don't have to explain myself to you." He stood up confidently, although Peter could still see the tremors running through his body. "Thanks for your help - have a nice fucking life."

With that, he strode out of the green room, leaving a very confused Peter in his wake.

* * *

 

"I have no idea what I did," Peter complained to his niece later that evening. "I mean, I _am_ an asshole, an inveterate asshole, an asshole until the end of my days. But on a scale from 1 to 'utter douche', my comment maybe falls near 'mildly insensitive', and that's being generous."

"I just don't see why you care, Uncle Peter," Laura replied, lazily twirling strands of spaghetti onto her fork. "He's human, so it's not like you've pissed off some local supernaturals who are going to come after the pack. Plus, he's a college-aged lighting technician - he'll probably move out of the off-Broadway New York scene in a couple of years, and even if he somehow doesn't,  I'm sure you can manage to avoid him. When do you ever have contact with the techs anyway?" She looked up from her spaghetti to glance at Peter and whatever she saw in his expression made her groan. "He's cute, isn't he?" She asked with what Peter thought was an inappropriate level of dread in her voice.

"Devastatingly," Peter confirmed, ignoring Laura's resulting groan and string of muttered curses. "A bit young and most definitely a twink -"

"You can't judge people's sexuality off of their body shape, Uncle Peter," protested Laura.

"But you know that's my type," Peter barrelled on. ("Unfortunately, " muttered Laura.)

"Alright, " Laura said resignedly. "Fine. Well, you've probably already realized that you hit a nerve." Peter nodded. "You know, you could apologize,  however foreign the concept is to you."

"I already figured that out, thanks," Peter replied with a hint of sharpness in his voice. "But how should I do that? I don't have any idea what my offense was, much less its severity."

"That's easy, Uncle Peter," Laura replied around a mouthful of pasta. "Food," she said, pointing a marinara-coated fork at him. "Whether he's a college kid doing an internship or just a kid working as an electrician, he likely doesn't have a large food budget. Getting him something from one of your overly-fancy gourmet cafes might be a good idea."

"You're a genius," Peter told her fondly. "At least when you're not trying to imitate your brother's garbage-disposal-like eating habits. We're not actually animals, you know." Laura glared at him, her lips covered in marinara sauce and her cheeks bulging with noodles. After a few moments of chewing, she finally swallowed.

"It's really good spaghetti," she protested sulkily.

"Glad to hear it, darling," Peter said, preening a bit.

"You-" Laura started, and then slapped her face into her palm. "There's no way to win with you, is there?" she groaned.

"Glad you finally accepted that," Peter said, reaching over the table to pat her shoulder consolingly. "If you'd inform your brother of that as well, we'd have much more amiable family dinners."

* * *

 

The next morning when Peter came to the theatre, he found Stiles up on a ladder again, this time directing a light to where it was supposed to shine. As Peter strode in from backstage, he could see the beam of light jerking erratically around the stage as Stiles fought with the recalcitrant knobs and screws on the casing of the stage light. Peter planted himself near the base of the ladder (in the right place to catch Stiles if he somehow managed to fall again).

"Good morning, Stiles," he said.

"Shit!" Stiles exclaimed, jumping in surprise. Luckily, this time the ladder stayed stable and his feet firmly planted. The beam of light swung crazily across the stage as the light was jolted by Stiles' erratic movements.

"Bilinski!" The master electrician boomed from the light booth. "You better not be falling off another ladder!"

"I'm fine, Finstock," Stiles called back. "Just got surprised by an actor who isn't backstage with the rest of the cast."

"Well, then why isn't that light where it's supposed to be?" Finstock bellowed. "Chop, chop, Bilinski! Don't let the useless actors get in your way!"

Grumbling under his breath, Stiles deftly focused the light back at its original position. He adjusted the barrel slightly and then slid a dark blue filter into the slot at the front of the light before descending the ladder and turning to glare at Peter, his hands planted firmly on his hips. "What was that for?" he demanded. "Wanted to see the poor little techie have another panic attack?"

Peter held out his hands placatingly. "I honestly didn't mean to startle you, Stiles," he said. "I just wanted to apologize for yesterday." As Stiles' aggressive demeanor eased into a startled confusion, Peter continued with a speech that, although he would never admit it, he had practiced in his mirror that morning. "I don't know exactly what I said to offend you, but I would like to apologize for it." Peter smiled at Stiles' awestruck look. "As a token of-" Peter began, rummaging in his shoulder bag, "my remorse-"

"Oh, hey, dude, no!" protested Stiles, "it's honestly not that big of a deal!" When Peter continued his search of the bag, Stiles reached out a hand to grasp Peter's wrist. "Peter, stop!" Surprised by Stiles' touch, Peter allowed his hand to be drawn away from his messenger bag.

"Yeah," Stiles continued, "you were a bit of a dick, and as you can tell, you kinda hit a raw nerve, but I can admit it wasn't entirely your fault, dude. I mean, you also helped me through a panic attack, even though I'm, like, a complete stranger to you, which was totally above and beyond the call of duty, and you were the one who saved me in the first place, so..." Stiles trailed off, and as his outburst ended, realized that he was still holding Peter's wrist. He quickly dropped it and retracted his hand with what was a frankly adorable blush, in Peter's opinion.

"Anyway," he valiantly continued, red staining his cheeks, "I'm pretty sure I should be the one apologizing to you."

Peter smiled at him. "Thank you, Stiles. But should I take this to mean that you _don't_ want a meatball sandwich from Banh Mi Saigon?"

Stiles' mouth dropped open. "You - I - Yes, I want! Oh my god, you do the best apologies! Can you piss me off more, please? I accept all future apologies enthusiastically!"

Peter chuckled. "I'm sure that won't be a problem, dear boy. I've been informed that I'm an asshole by a very reliable source."

Stiles beamed. "But you have good taste in food, so things balance out?" he ventured.

Peter threw back his head and laughed. Stiles' grin brightened in answer.

"Hey, Bilinski!" Finstock bellowed. "You want to stop flirting with the actors and get back to work? Those lights won't focus themselves! If we had enough money to buy robotic fixtures, they would, but we don't, so get back up on that ladder!"

Stiles' smile turned wry. "My break's up, I guess. See you at lunch?"

"Certainly, Stiles," Peter replied. "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

 

"No," Stiles moaned, burying his head in his hands. "She didn't. That's impossible,  Peter."

"I assure you, dear boy," Peter said, sitting back in his chair and taking a large swallow of his lemonade, "she did. And so once I heard that she had actually secured the part, probably by sleeping with the director, unless I miss my mark, I decided to take my acting skills elsewhere."

"It's not going to be _No Exit_ ," Stiles said, his voice muffled by his hands. "It's going to be _All the Exits: How Quickly Can the Audience Find Them?_ "

Peter snorted. "True. I disliked the director anyway - I've had a bad experience with him before - but it was _No Exit_ , so I had to at least give it a try."

"You and your Sartre obsession," Stiles said, finally removing his hands from his face. "It's going to get you into trouble sometime - overcommitted with terrible directors and awful co-stars."

"Like you and your Ibsen obsession?" Peter replied fondly. "What's your first show in the fall again? Your response to this question should be, of course, 'which one, Peter?'"

"Shut up, Peter," Stiles retorted. "Ugh," he continued,  "why am I still hanging out with you, asshole? Our mutual show has long since closed, and I'm not even going to be hanging around the New York professional theatre scene once school starts up again."

"I pay for your lunches," Peter pointed out, wiping his mouth with a napkin before balling it up on his plate.

Stiles shrugged. "Eh, point." Then a large smile broke out across his face. "Or maybe I just like you, asshole."

Peter put on a fake expression of contemplation. "No," he finally concluded. "It's the food." He laughed when Stiles kicked him under the table.

"You're a jerk," Stiles said fondly. "I'm not actually that mercenary."

Peter shrugged. "I think you could be." At Stiles' frown, he continued, "Not that that's a bad thing, dear boy. If you're going to survive in the theatre, you're going to have to cultivate a network of professional friends - and there's no good reason to invest in people who won't be able to help you."

Stiles shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. "Eh, I suppose that's probably true," he said. "I didn't really think about that when I decided to get into stage lighting, but I guess that's the nature of the beast. One cannot build a career on competence alone, or whatnot."

"Why did you get into stage lighting anyway?" Peter dared to ask. Ever since his unintentional insult months ago that had gotten Stiles and him off to a rocky start, Peter had steered clear of anything that even vaguely sounded like he was doubting the wisdom of Stiles working with stage lights.

Stiles was silent for a long moment, and Peter feared that he had somehow managed to offend the boy again. It had only been a couple months since their first disastrous meeting, but Peter had already begun to consider Stiles one of his close friends. Of course, he would be fine if Stiles decided that he no longer wanted to deal with Peter’s abrasive nature, but he would be lying if he said he would be unaffected by Stiles terminating their friendship. And as far as he could tell, if there was a subject that could break their developing friendship, this would be the one.

Finally, Stiles began to speak,  but he was subdued and serious,  significantly different from his usual spastic and irreverent self.

"My mom," Stiles started, before pausing to swallow heavily.  "My mom would always take me to see our town's community theatre productions. I mean, it was like clockwork - every three months we'd go to the Sunday matinee of that season's show. I thought these shows were the coolest things ever. I mean," Stiles explained, "now I recognize that the space was falling apart and that the acting was pretty hit-or-miss. It was, after all, the underfunded community theatre of a dinky little California town. But I still thought it was the coolest, and I wanted so badly to be on that stage.

"One day," Stiles continued, "I told that to my mom after a matinee performance. And she said," Stiles paused for a moment. "I'll never forget it. She said: 'You know, acting isn't the only art on that stage.' She immediately turned around, went back into the theatre, and bought us two tickets for the performance that night. I sat through the exact same show I had seen that afternoon, only this time, my mom pointed out all of the little things that made up the show to me in a low voice, like the cut of the female lead's dress, the dappling of color on the set, the balance of warm and cool light on the stage. By the end," Stiles said, "I knew I wanted to work on the stage, but not as an actor. I wanted to be one of the secret artists that built the foundation of the show."

Both Peter and Stiles sat in silence for a moment, Stiles staring down at his hands, which were clenched in his lap, and Peter staring appraisingly at Stiles.

"You know," Peter finally said. "I've never really seen the artistry in stage lighting." When Stiles raised his head to look at Peter, a terrible expression of betrayal on his face, Peter quickly reached across the small table to grab Stiles' forearm, almost knocking over their drinks in the process.

"No, no, dear boy," Peter said, "you misunderstood me. Listen, Stiles," he demanded, as the boy made to angrily stand up, trying to tug his arm out of Peter's grip. "I meant that I just hadn't seen it _yet_!" When Stiles finally settled down and stopped trying to escape Peter's hold, Peter continued, "I must admit, when I watch shows, I mainly concentrate on my fellow actors, and the light just seems like a necessary thing so that the actors can be seen." He smiled softly at Stiles, his thumb absently stroking his forearm. "Any interest in changing my mind?"

"You are an utter asshole," Stiles grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile playing about his mouth. "You're coming to my Henrik Ibsen production that opens in October. And you're not getting free tickets."

Peter chuckled, finally releasing Stiles and leaning back in his seat. He tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Fair enough," he said. "We still on for lunch next week?" he asked.

"Of course," Stiles replied, standing up and throwing his backpack over one shoulder. "If you're paying."

"Dear boy," said Peter with a fond smile, leaning forward towards Stiles to rest his elbows on the glass table. "Have you ever known me to do any differently?"

* * *

 

"Hey Peter," Stiles said, sitting on the other side of the circular table from Peter. "Here you go." He slid an envelope across the lacquered wood to Peter.

"What’s this, dear boy?" Peter asked, picking up the envelope and examining it curiously.

Stiles shrugged, his fingers beating a tattoo on the table. "I mean, I do get two complementary tickets," he explained, looking somewhat abashed.  "And Lydia's in the show," he continued, as Peter unfolded the top of the envelope to reveal one ticket to the opening night of Ibsen's _Ghosts_.

"So I only needed one for Scott, and so I thought..." Stiles babbled, hands twitching to provide sporadic emphasis to his words. "I mean, only if you want to. And if you're bringing someone else, you'll need to buy another, though. So-"

"Stiles," Peter interrupted. "Thank you." He carefully tucked the ticket into his wallet. "I would buy tickets for my niece and nephew, but they're both busy next Friday, so," he smirked at Stiles. "You'll just have to put up with only me."

"Good thing I've already had plenty of practice," Stiles retorted, and Peter diplomatically didn't mention the relief in his voice.

"Indeed you have," Peter instead replied with a small smile. "About five months of practice, which, coincidentally, judging by the bags under your eyes, looks to be about the length of time since you've slept."

"Shut up, asshole," Stiles said without heat. "Two shows at the same time is an awful idea. Plus, classes are hard, and I've forgotten why I decided to study folklore as well as theatre. I fall asleep in class constantly, my ma-," Stiles swallowed and shook his head. "I mean, my main man Scott has to nudge me awake during dinner so I don't fall asleep on my pasta."

Peter shrugged.  "You'll get through it," he told Stiles. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said when Stiles threw him a look, "did you want me to join your pity party? You're strong and competent, Stiles," Peter said to the now-pouting boy. "Offering you pity would be an insult. Instead, I'm confident that you'll deal with your problems effectively."

"Aw, asshole," Stiles said with a beaming smile. "That was almost sweet." A hint of red tinged his cheeks, and not for the first time, Peter desperately wanted to lean across the table and kiss Stiles' stupidly attractive smile off his face. He had been aware of Stiles' attractiveness from the moment his beautiful boy had stormed out of the green room, but he hadn't fully realized how irresistible Stiles would be once he got to know him - he was sarcastic and witty, with a cutting insight and a truly remarkable intelligence. Peter was almost positive that if he confessed his true species to Stiles right now, he would have to deal with, at most, 15 minutes of freaking out, followed by several hours of intelligent questions. Then once Stiles realized that Peter had a small library of books about the supernatural, he would likely take up semi-permanent residence in Peter's apartment to study his books. Peter tried to quash the little flare of warmth that that thought created, with limited success.

The only problem was that Peter couldn't tell how Stiles felt in return. He was certainly displaying behaviors that indicated reciprocal interest, like blushing around Peter and flashing a great deal of those unfairly attractive smiles at him. However, the boy never smelled of arousal around Peter. In fact, Peter had never smelt arousal on Stiles at all, even when hot women and men would pass by their table. He would have suspected that Stiles was asexual, but his darling boy had confirmed in passing that he was bisexual, which only left the possibility that Stiles wasn't attracted to Peter. (Peter suspected that Stiles was demisexual, which would lead to the even more disappointing conclusion that Stiles likely didn't feel enough of an emotional connection to be attracted to Peter.)

"Peter?" Stiles asked, a note of concern in his voice, and Peter realized that he had let the silence stretch a little too long.

"Sorry, dear boy," he said, forcing himself to smile reassuringly. "Got lost in my thoughts for a moment. Ignoring Stiles' mildly suspicious look, he busied himself with one of the menus that were stacked in the center of the table. "Should we order?" he asked, flipping open to the middle of the menu and skimming the list of sandwiches.

"Sure," Stiles acquiesced, obviously still suspicious, but willing to let it rest. Peter gratefully accepted the reprieve and began telling Stiles about the antics of the other cast members in his newest show. As Stiles' laugh rang out in the cool autumn air, Peter could feel himself relax, buoyed up by Stiles' good mood.

* * *

 

"Peter!" cried Stiles. "Oh my god," he said, navigating around the packed lobby to make his way to the older man. "Peter, this is a student production. You didn't have to come in a fucking tuxedo."

"One should always be well-dressed when attending the theatre," Peter primly informed Stiles. "Unless they're techies," Peter continued, surveying Stiles' attire with amusement. "About the best you can get from them is jeans with no preexisting holes."

"Hey," Stiles retorted. "I'm wearing a nice polo shirt too!" His eyes darted around the room until they alighted on his target. Stiles' smile brightened by a couple of watts and he enthusiastically grabbed Peter wrist. "Come on," he said, lightly tugging on Peter's arm. "Scott's over here - I want you to meet him."

Peter huffed out a disgruntled sigh, but he obediently followed Stiles, his warm hand a comfortable weight around Peter's wrist. As they navigated through the throngs of people, Peter picked up the scent of an unfamiliar werewolf - in fact, he realized as he flared his nose to better identify the odor, there was an entire pack of wolves in this lobby - one alpha and three betas, unless his missed his guess. As they moved towards Stiles' friend, the scent intensified, until they came to a stop beside a muscled Hispanic boy.

"Scott," Stiles cried excitedly, and the boy turned to face them - only to snarl when he saw Peter and flash alpha-red eyes at him.

Peter reared back, startled, and flashed his own pre-naturally beta-gold eyes at the alpha in surprise.

"Oh my god," Stiles said. "Oh my god, Peter! How the fuck did I not know you were a were..." Suddenly remembering that they were in public, Stiles looked around nervously, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "A werewolf?"

"You know about werewolves?" Peter asked, stunned.

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles said, waving a hand dismissively. “All my best friends are supernatural in one way or another.”

“I… never smelt any werewolves on you,” said Peter dumbly.

“Well,” Stiles said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I mean, there are a lot of packs in New York…”

“Many, many werewolves,” piped up a stunning blonde girl with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Shut up, Erica,” Stiles retorted. “Anyway,” he continued, “Scott was worried about my wolfy-virtue or something-“

“I just didn’t want you to create an inter-pack incident,” Scott explained with a long-suffering tone in his voice.

“If I could finish,” Stiles said with irritation. Peter felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. Stiles and his friends were like a well-oiled comedy act. “An-y-way,” he articulated sharply, “as I was saying, Scott thought it was better if no other supernatural being realized I was associated with a pack.”

“Or that you were a Spark,” a tall boy in a scarf contributed.

“Oh my god, Isaac,” Stiles said, at the same time Peter exclaimed, “You’re a Spark?”

“It’s not cool to out someone,” Stiles remonstrated Isaac. “Hey, you’ve already heard this speech before when Scott decided it was cool to out me as bisexual in high school.”

“Hey, I apologized for that,” Scott said, and threw Stiles the most pitiful puppy eyes that Peter had ever seen.

Peter snorted. When the pack turned to him, he shrugged. “You four are entertaining,” he explained. “Or five, I suppose,” he corrected himself, looking at the stoic African American boy standing close to Erica.

“So what did you do?” Peter turned to ask Stiles. “It’s not like you have no scent – I just can’t smell the odor of werewolf on you.”

Stiles shrugged. “Oh, there’s a couple of handy spells that erase specific scents. Because, you know, sometimes it’s more suspicious to have no odor at all.”

“So you erased the scent of werewolves, of your spark…” Peter said.

“Of his arousal,” Isaac chimed in, snickering. “He didn’t like us ribbing him about his celebrity crushes.”

“Isaac!” Stiles cried, a vivid blush spreading over his cheeks. He punched him in the shoulder, but the African American kid pulled Isaac away before he could retaliate.

“Is that so?” Peter replied contemplatively. Things made much more sense now, he mused, staring at Stiles and his adorable blush. Scott caught him looking, and growled lowly under his breath. Peter flashed a bit of fang at him in return.

“Hey no,” protested Stiles, having caught the end of that exchange. “Guys, please don’t fight.” Suddenly, the lights in the lobby flickered on and off. “Hey, that’s my cue,” he said. “I gotta go run the board – you guys enjoy the show, alright?” He left to the wishes of good luck from his friends and Peter.

When Stiles was out of earshot, Scott turned to Peter. “He likes you,” he said, almost accusingly. “He’s been talking about you for months. So I’m tolerating you for now, even if you do belong to an unfamiliar pack and are like, twenty years or so older. However, if you hurt him…” Scott trailed off menacingly.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’ll eviscerate me or visit some other suitably painful torture upon my body.”

“No,” Scott corrected. “I’ll get in contact with your alpha to offer my condolences.” He smiled warmly at Peter, but there was no humor in his eyes.

Peter nodded, half-impressed in spite of himself. “That was actually fairly good,” he told Scott as he and the younger werewolves made their way to their seats. “You just have to improve the intimidating demeanor a little. Be more like him,” he said, gesturing to Erica’s intimidating boyfriend. He waved jauntily at the pack, who were all now glaring at him. “Bye-bye – it was nice meeting you all,” he said, before he escaped to his seat.

* * *

 

Peter had to admit, he hadn’t been expecting anything spectacular from this show. Oh, he knew his boy did good work – he had heard the techs talking about the college intern who actually knew his way around lights, and had good design sense to boot. But as he had told Stiles, he never had seen the artistry of stage lighting – he had either seen lighting that was simply functional or lighting that was, in his opinion, too ostentatious, with bright pinks and purples and moving, spinning lights. Of course he respected stage lighters – any actor with half a brain appreciated the techs and designers – but he had never understood why someone would just _decide_ to be one.

So Peter had been fully prepared to deal with half-decent acting for a couple of hours and then tell Stiles that his light design was lovely at the end of the show. Perhaps they could go out to dinner after – Peter had made some reservations at an upscale Indian restaurant nearby that Stiles had wanted to go to for ages. It would be a great night, simply because he would get to spend time with his boy, all happy and flushed with success.

As Peter sat down after escaping from Stiles’ pack, the house lights dimmed and then after a short pause, went completely out. It was utterly dark for one beat, two, and then the lights came up on the stage.

And Peter had his breath knocked out of him. The set was gorgeous, of course – Ibsen plays tended to occur in pretty Norwegian houses, which allowed the set designers to do some elegant work. The majority of the back wall of the set was glass, creating an enormous window overlooking a garden and a dreary gray backdrop, which would have been spectacular just by itself.

But Stiles’ lights – the set was awash in a cool, steely blue light which leeched some of the color from the actors’ faces, while through the window came a dismal, grey light, like the color of the sun when it is trying its hardest to shine through a thick bank of clouds. The actors threw stark shadows across the floor, and as they began to move, Peter watched the play of the grey-blue backlight across their hair as they stared out across the audience, the cool light turning them as pale as the titular ghosts.

It was ingenious, Peter realized as the play unfolded. Stiles had somehow managed to turn an inviting Norwegian drawing room into an isolating place, where characters, bleached of their liveliness, were separated from each other both by their own webs of deceit and illusion and their shadows, which crept across the walls and over the floors.

The lights rarely changed throughout the first act – the only change that Peter could spot was a dimming and brightening of the grey “sunlight” that came through the window as certain characters moved in and out of the room. However, as the house lights brightened for intermission, Peter rocked back in his seat, stunned. It was subtle, certainly, he thought as people filed past him to go to the bathroom or chat in the lobby. Had he not been consciously observing it, he might have called it utilitarian, but that would insult Stiles’ careful, perfect color choices and his obviously deep understanding of lighting angles and how to use the shadows cast by both actors and set pieces.

Had he missed all of this before? Peter considered the other shows that he had seen recently as the house lights flickered and people began to trickle back into the theatre. Had there always been this beautiful interplay of light and shadow and he just hadn’t been specifically looking for it? Or was it just Stiles’ skill? It was likely both, he decided as the house lights dimmed. He may have seen some well-lit shows and never noticed, but his boy’s light design was unquestionably brilliant as well.

After intermission, during the second act, the stage was lit similarly to Act I. The acting was more than tolerable, Peter decided, his attention drifting away from the lights for the time being. There was one firecracker of a girl who was playing the maid, Regina, wonderfully – her biting anger and terrible bitterness holding a sting of truth to it. Peter wondered if this was Stiles’ friend Lydia, and resolved that if it was, Stiles had to introduce him - they would either get along beautifully or become mortal enemies, Peter was sure.

But it was at the end of Act II that Stiles' brilliance became obvious to everyone in the audience, whether or not they were actively watching the lighting, like Peter was. In the play, an orphanage caught on fire, and suddenly, the grey backdrop was awash in deep amber and red flickering lights - the sky looked like it was literally burning, and the light through the window changed to a dull amber. The characters turned towards the fire, and their faces glowed warmly in the reflected firelight. However, the drawing room was still lit in isolating, cool light, and it was even more obvious against the contrast of the flickering fire.

"Damn," Peter heard a man behind him whisper, and he completely agreed.

In the transition from the second to the third act, the fire was slowly banked, the grey background returning to its former color, with only the red glow of a smoldering fire near the horizon remaining. The stage seemed somehow even colder now, with the memory of flames lingering on the backdrop.

At the very end of the play, the two leads turned towards the window. "The sun," rasped the male lead, and a dirty beam of sunlight began to brighten, slicing through the cool lights of the room. "The sun," he rasped again as the female lead began to sob, and then both of them were lit by a single, strong, amber light. As the woman's weeping continued, the cool lights dimmed, leaving only the bright beam of sunlight and the banked glow of the fire on the backdrop. And then, even those were gone, and the house lights came up. Peter clapped on autopilot, although he did clap louder for the beautiful girl who was probably Stiles' Lydia.

He quickly exited the theatre, pushing ahead of people who were moving too slowly. When he finally reached the lobby, he found Stiles standing by the foot of the stairs that led up to the light booth.

"What did you think?" Stiles asked Peter as he approached.  "I mean, it wasn't the - mmmphm!"

Stiles was cut off by Peter's lips slanting over his. He flailed a bit in confusion, but then became utterly boneless, molding himself to the line of Peter's body. Peter let his arms come up to encircle Stiles and gather him even closer. Finally Peter broke the kiss, but they didn't pull away from each other, ignoring Erica's wolf-whistle and Scott's groan from behind them.

"You liked it then?" Stiles asked cheekily, with a bright, dopey smile.

"I did," Peter confirmed, pecking Stiles on the nose. "Honestly, Stiles, it was brilliant," he told the boy seriously, "but even if it hadn't been," he continued playfully, "I was still planning on kissing you."

"You rascal!" Stiles exclaimed, pulling away enough to mock-smack Peter's chest. "And without one date, even!"

Peter raised one eyebrow. "And what in the world do you call the last five months?" he asked.

"Lunches with a friend," Stiles primly informed Peter. "I'm a classy girl - I hold out for dinner, at least."

Peter snorted. "Well, good thing that I made dinner reservations for tonight, isn't it?"

Stiles squealed excitedly. "Oh my god, Peter!" he exclaimed, "You're the best! Where, where, where?"

Peter smiled down at the beautiful, witty, brilliant boy in his arms. "You mentioned an Indian restaurant?" he said, and Stiles squealed again.

"The best," Stiles repeated, quickly kissing Peter again before disengaging from his hold and running back up the stairs.

"I just need to turn the light board off," Stiles called over his shoulder to Peter. "And then we can go to dinner!"

"I'll be waiting here below you, dear boy," Peter called up to him.

Stiles paused for a moment, then turned around to face Peter with a smile on his face. "Just like you've always been, I suppose?" he asked, playfully.

"Ready to catch you when you fall," Peter confirmed, and smiled back at Stiles, hopelessly fond, and with more truth in those words than he was ready to admit.

"Hey!" Stiles protested. "I'm honestly not all that clumsy!"

Peter laughed. "We're not going to get into that argument now, darling," he said. "Go," he added, making a shoeing motion with his hand. "You need to turn off your light board. But Stiles," he continued seriously. "It really was spectacular."

Stiles smiled warmly at him. "Thanks Peter." They held eye contact for a few long minutes before Stiles pivoted around and took the stairs two at a time. "Be back in five, asshole," he called as he disappeared into the booth. "Don't go to dinner without me!"

Peter chuckled to himself. Oh, his brilliant boy certainly was a menace - but then, he couldn’t imagine Stiles any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is, folks! To fellow techies, I apologize for the lack of jargon - I figured it would just confuse people. To non-techies, if a bit of jargon slipped through, I apologize - please tell me and I will fix it. Also, I don't live in New York, so yes, I was very vague with places and am sorry for any inaccuracies. The theatre is modelled off of my school's mainstage, which I do live in.
> 
> Also, please follow me on my relatively new [tumblr](http://www.flightofmorning.tumblr.com), which I got three months ago, after I posted the most recent chapter of Multitudes and When the Wind Blows Through It (which will be updated soooon!). Please come talk to me about fandom and writing! I need some people to bounce ideas off of!


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